The checkup room was sterile and quiet, a sharp contrast to the chaos that usually surrounded him. The doctor, a man in his early forties with tired eyes and a no-nonsense tone, asked him questions. How long had the pain lasted? Where exactly did it hurt? Vincent answered, still trying to sound casual.
He hoped it was something minor—ulcers, maybe. A stomach bug. A little warning to slow down. But when the scans came back, the doctor’s demeanor changed. He sat down across from Vincent and spoke the words slowly, carefully, like lowering a hammer. “You have pancreatic necrosis,” he said. “It’s severe.”